


Fable

by organfailure



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Jearmin Week 2019, M/M, Minor Injuries, forbidden relationship, storybook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 02:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organfailure/pseuds/organfailure
Summary: Once upon a time.





	Fable

There’s a place in the woods that all of the children in the village know to fear.

“Stay out of the deep woods,” the mother says to her small son, “Or the witch will eat you and turn your bones into broth and your eyes into jam.”

“Don’t cross over the river,” the man says to his daughters, “Or the witch will turn you into a cat and feed you to their wolves.”

“Stay on our land” says the carpenter to the carpenter’s son, “Or the witch will steal your voice and your heart and your mind, and send you home empty.”

The children of the village learned to not wander far into the woods, to stay with their families, to work their fields and tend their gardens and their shops. These children had children of their own, and raised their children how they had been raised: Wary of the woods and the witch that dwelled within. Children grew and took care of their parents, who aged and died and returned to the earth. There were occasional signs of the witch: Strange lights in the forest at night, strange animals seen wandering the outskirts of town. But life went on. All was as it had always been in the little village. All was well.

Years had passed, and the carpenter’s son had grown into a young man. He worked in his father’s shop, mending the possessions of his friends and neighbours, building and crafting and fixing. Like the other young folks of the village, he danced and fought, minded his elders and gossiped with his peers, wandered the fields in the evenings and swam in the river in the summer, though never, ever crossing it. As the carpenter’s son grew, so did his reputation as a fair and honest man. The children he grew up with began to look up to him, village elders considered his input, and the family business prospered . “You'll be married soon,” his mother told him, “You’ll own the shop soon,” his father told him, “You’ll be a leader of this village soon,” his elders told him. And the carpenter’s son thought, ‘That is all very well, I suppose.’

One day, the carpenter’s son was called into a meeting of the village elders. They all sat at their long table, murmuring amongst each other, before addressing the young man.

“It has been decided that the witch that lives deep in the forest must be destroyed. It has been a threat to our way of life for simply too long. First the lights will come, then the witch will set its beasts upon us. You are a respected and able man. We believe you have the strength needed to destroy the evil in the woods.”

“If it is expected of me, I will slay the witch,” the carpenter’s son said dutifully.

“When you return, victoriously, you will have whatever you want out of life. A promised place on the council, a helping of land, gratitude and glory. It will be yours for the taking, if you destroy the witch for us.”

The carpenter’s son agreed, and set out for the woods the following morning.

He carried with him his tool case, which he carried with him everywhere he went, and a small handaxe. The carpenter’s son forded the river and wandered into that part of the woods where children are told they should not go. The sunlight that shone through the leaves shone differently than in the village, and the air smelled sweeter. The carpenter’s son wandered all morning, on his guard and searching for the witch’s house until the sun climbed high into the sky. The carpenter’s son, tired and frustrated at growing lost so many times, sat down and rested a moment upon a fallen tree stump. 

“I’ll rest here a moment,” the carpenter’s son said to himself, “And travel a bit further north before I return to the village.”

While the carpenter’s son sat, he took in the view of the woods he had never walked through before. Strange purple flowers bloomed in the shade of the trees, crows watched him warily from the safety of their nests, and a family of deer, usually so frightened of humans, walked right past him, over the tree stump and towards the east.

“Such strange deer,” the carpenter’s son thought, “I’ll follow to see where they wander.”

The carpenter’s son followed the family of deer quietly, careful not to startle them, when they lead them straight to his goal; A tiny cottage, overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle. 

The carpenter’s son approached the cottage cautiously. A rocking chair, broken, leaned against the cottage. A garden bed near the cottage door was overflowing with greens and flowers. The deer wandered to a lone figure, sitting on the grass, and fed from his hand.

The carpenter’s son was surprised by the witch’s appearance: In place of an old, ugly crone sat a young man around his age. He wore clothes similar to his own, though covered in dirt. His hair was long and golden, his face young and fresh.

“Are you the witch that lives in these woods?” The carpenter’s son asked, quite afraid but not wanting to show it.

“I am,” said the witch as he pet the neck of one of the deer. “Are you from the village?”

“I am,” the carpenter’s son replied, “I’ve come to speak with you.”

“Speak with me? Why?” The witch asked, for no villager had ever come to visit him.

“I am curious,” said the carpenter’s son, “I’ve been sent to kill you because the village is afraid of you, but I’m not sure that I want to kill you. I want to know why you have not destroyed us who hate you so much.”

The witch stood up and thought about the question for a moment.

“I could not destroy your village even if I wanted to, and I do not want to. I am perfectly happy in these woods, and I do not hate anyone, and I never want to kill anyone, either.”

The carpenter’s son thought about the answer for a moment.

“You do not hate our village?”

“No, I do not hate your village.”

“Then why shun us? Why make your home out here in the wilderness? You could live in any village you wanted.”

The witch gave him a sly, secretive smile.

“Why, I live out here because I’m a witch, of course. Where else would a witch live?”

The carpenter’s son thought the answer to be strange, but nodded anyways.

“But how did you become a witch? You don’t look like one.”

“I don’t look like one? But I am one,” The witch frowned, “And I could tell you, but what will I get in return?”

The carpenter gestured to the unused, broken rocking chair. 

“I can fix your chair, so that you do not need to sit on the ground.”

The witch agreed, and the carpenter’s son took out his toolkit and repaired the rocking chair under the witch’s curious eye. When he was done, the witch sat down and sighed and stretched out his long, thin legs. 

“That is much better,” the witch said, “The days are growing colder and the ground is growing harder. Thank you.”

“What about my question?” The carpenter’s son asked. The witch hummed in thought.

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea to tell you everything at once. But I can tell you I wasn’t always a witch. Does that help?”

“A little bit,” the carpenter’s son supposed, “But I still do not understand.”

“You can come back tomorrow,” said the witch, “I’ll be here.”

The carpenter’s son nodded and turned to leave, but paused.

“I told my elders I would go out here to destroy the witch. How do I convince them I’ve done that?”

The witch thought for a moment before stepping into the cottage. When he returned, he carried a piece of fabric which he unfolded to reveal a single, mummified finger. 

“Tell them that you though failed to kill me, you managed to take my finger. Return here tomorrow night.”

And the carpenter’s son nodded and returned to the village in the evening. Weary from his journey, he showed the finger to the elders and explained the witch was too difficult to kill, but he was unwounded and would try again the following night, while the witch slept. The elders nodded and commended the man for his bravery and devotion to their village.

The following night, the carpenter’s son crept out of the village and into the forest, carrying nothing but his tool case. The waning moon was the only source of light in the dark woods, making it difficult to see the path before him, but the carpenter’s son remembered the way. He eventually came across the witch’s cottage and, seeing a light glowing in the window, knocked on the door. The door swung open without the assistance of the witch, who was stirring a cauldron over a fire. The cottage was small, with only a hearth, a set of chairs, and several tables piled high with papers and books and cookware.

“You came again,” the witch said, not looking up, “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I want to ask another question,” said the carpenter’s son. The witch smiled at him.

“And what will I get in return?”

The carpenter’s son looked around the small room and noticed a large wooden work table missing two of its legs leaning in a dark corner.

“I can fix your table, so that you’ll have more room for your work.”

The witch agreed, and the carpenter’s son took out his toolkit and repaired the table while the witch stirred at his cauldron. The carpenter’s son worked for several hours, and finished when the moon had dipped low in the sky. He placed the table in the cottage’s work area, and the witch placed his cooled cauldron down on top of it, along with several glass jars.

“This is good work,” the witch said, “It doesn’t creak at all under the weight of this heavy old pot.” The witch took out an enormous ladle and began pouring his handiwork, a sickly green liquid, into each jar. “Now then, what do you want to ask me today?”

“You didn’t answer my question from yesterday. How did you become a witch?”

“Did I not? Well.” the witch thought about his answer for a moment. 

“When I was young, I liked to wander into the woods, even though my family warned me not to. While I was out there, I learned that the most potent medicines and the most beautiful flowers grew outside of the village boundaries. The air there was cleaner, and the animals were more trusting. I wanted to learn as much about the world outside of my village as I could.”

“But that doesn’t make someone a witch,” said the carpenter’s son, “That just means you were like most other children.”

The witch shrugged as he closed up the lids on the jars, gathering them up into his arms and placing them in a heavy cabinet.

“I’m not an expert in magic, I must confess. But when I came out here, I learned that when you ask the world to give you something, you would be surprised at what she is willing to give you.”

The witch yawned widely, and went to put out the fire in the hearth.

“Magic is just an extension of our world. And I was willing to work for knowledge of it. That’s all I could really tell you, I’m sorry.”

“No,” the carpenter’s son reassured him, “That makes some sense, I suppose.”

“The more you wander out of your village, the more sense it will make, you know.”

The carpenter’s son supposed that was also true. The witch sat down and drew his jacket around his shoulders.

“Anything else?”

The carpenter’s son paused a moment.

“What were you brewing over here?”

The witch gave a little laugh.

“Just some medicine, I’m afraid. No strange spells or poisons.”

The carpenter’s son nodded, and turned to leave for home when he remembered he still had a promise to his village to fulfill.

“I came here again because I promised to kill you. How do I convince them I’ve done that?”

The witch thought for a moment before standing and walking over to a cabinet which he rifled around in for a few minutes. He eventually pulled out a jar full of eyes, and pulled out one the same shade of blue as his own. 

“Tell them that although you again failed to kill me, you managed to take my eye out. And you can come here again tomorrow night, and we’ll talk some more.”

The carpenter’s son nodded and returned home just as the sun was beginning to peek its glowing face over the horizon. He showed the eye to the elders and explained that the witch had tricked him and escaped, but he was certain he would succeed the following night. The elders, disappointed but relieved the man was unhurt, nodded and swore the witch would soon be destroyed.

The following night, the carpenter’s son left the village for the forest again. There was no moon; The stars in the night sky were all that illuminated the way, but the carpenter’s son managed to quickly reach the witch’s cottage. When he walked up to the door, it swung open before he could even knock. The door to the cottage’s side room was also open; The witch sat on a large wooden bed, cutting out long strips of bandages from a roll of cloth. A thick book from which the witch was reading floated in front of his face, the pages turning by some invisible hand. The starry quilt he rested on seemed to twinkle and glow like the sky above the cottage.

“Good evening,” said the witch, “Have you come to talk to me some more?”

“I have,” said the carpenter’s son, “But what may I do for you in return?”

The witch looked up from his book, and gestured around his tiny cottage.

“I’m afraid I have no more work for you to do right now. Nothing needs fixed. I will allow you one question, since you came all this way, but I want to ask you one in return.”

“Of course.”

“Why do you keep coming here?”

The carpenter’s son thought it over before answering.

“All my life, I was taught that the world had to be one way, simply because it is. Any thought of the world becoming different made me fearful out of instinct. And one day, I asked myself if I really believed all that.”

The carpenter’s son looked down at his hands, rough and worn from years of hard work.

“I am a carpenter’s son. That’s all I am. I was born into a world that had already decided who I would be and what I would do with my life. All I need to do is walk down the path set before me. But shouldn’t I decide for myself? Can’t I make one choice, at least?”

The carpenter’s son sighed deeply and looked back at the witch, who had set aside his bandages and his scissors.

“Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.” The witch smiled at him. “Now, your question?”

The carpenter’s son wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to ask. He hadn’t thought quite this far ahead.

“You weren’t born a witch, but you decided to become one.”

“That’s right, yes.”

“...Could I do it?”

“Yes, of course.”

The carpenter’s son swallowed nervously.

“But how?”

“It’s like you said. Just made a choice.”

That night, the witch cut off a lock of his long, golden hair and gave it to the carpenter’s son.

“Sleep on it. Tell the villagers you will try to slay the witch again tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, if you’ve made your choice, come find me then.”  
The carpenter’s son agreed, and returned to his village. As he lay in his bed, he resolved that after tomorrow, he would not return to the village for a very long time.

In the morning, the carpenter’s son showed the lock of hair to the village elders.

“Give me one more chance,” he said, “And I will make sure the witch is defeated once and for all.”

The elders shook their heads in disappointment. They ground their teeth in anger.

“You have had enough opportunities to rid us of this threat. It is clear you don’t have what it takes,” they said. They dragged the carpenter’s son to the center of the town where a large group of his neighbors and friends had gathered. There were men and women, all near his age, carrying their own simple weapons: A sickle here, an ax there. They all smiled at him sympathetically, but with hateful intent in their eyes.

“Perhaps we asked too much of you,” the elders said, “You should not have to kill the witch on your own. Lead us to the witch’s lair, and we will help you kill it.”

The man’s heart caught in his throat as he looked out among the villagers. Some of them he had played with since he was a child. These were people he had known all his life, people whom he trusted.

"Take us to the witch!”a voice called out from the crowd.

“You have all of us behind you!” called another.

“We will kill it with you!”

The carpenter’s son was shocked. He didn’t know what to do. What was he supposed to tell these people? His people?

“I can’t,” he said weakly. “I can’t lead you to the witch.”

Murmurs rippled throughout the crowd.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t lead you to the witch because we can’t kill the witch. We must leave h-it alone, or we will suffer greatly. If we stay in the village, we will be safe.”

A moment passed before a lone voice shouted from the crowd.

“Liar! He’s a liar!”

“If we don’t kill the witch, the witch will kill us!”

“He’s been seeing that witch at night! Maybe he’s a witch now, too!”

The crowd began seething at the carpenter’s son, drawing their weapons close and pushing forward as the village elders stepped to the side. The carpenter’s son backed up, hands raised as he attempted to reason with these people he had known all his life.

“If he’s become a witch...we’ll just have to kill him, too!”

Unsure what to do and with the angered crowd beginning to close in, the carpenter’s son did the only thing he could do: He ran, in the direction of the woods. Being now familiar with the forest, he ran faster than the mob, but they were quickly gaining on him. They threw rocks and sticks and debris at him to slow him down, hitting and injuring him in several places.

Where do I run?, the carpenter’s son thought, I can’t lead them to the witch’s cottage...but if I don’t warn him, they will likely find him anyways!

Doing his best to focus on the forest in front of him and not the mob nipping at his heels, the carpenter’s son sprinted towards the cottage. A well-aimed rock managed to get him in the back of the head, but he continued running until he saw the first signs of the clearing.

“Run!” he called out, “Get away, do something!”. The mob felt as though it must be right on top of him by now. “I can try to hold them, but you must go now!”

The witch emerged from the cottage, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“What on earth is going on?”

“The villagers, they’re coming to kill you, you have to run!”

“I have to...Oh! Oh, dear, it’s alright.”

“But-” 

“Sit down, you’re hurt,” the witch said calmly, gesturing to the rocking chair. “I assure you, we’re quite safe here.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Look!”

The carpenter’s son looked behind him. A few villagers had wandered into the clearing, weapons drawn, eyes searching.

“Where’d he go?” one said.

“He was just here!” said the other.

They wandered the clearing blindly, eventually wandering back into the deep woods. The carpenter’s son, amazed, fell into the rocking chair. Villagers came and went through the clearing, all seemingly unaware of the witch’s cottage. The witch had gone inside, and re-emerged with a jar of the green potion and some of the bandages he had cut earlier.

“You’re injured,” the witch noted, kneeling next to the rocking chair and rubbing the green potion in his palms, “Let me help you.”

He rubbed the potion where the villagers had wounded the carpenter’s son, and the stinging pain from the cuts and scrapes quickly abated. He then wrapped the linen bandages around any bleeding skin, including one around the other man’s head.

“Why couldn’t they see us?”

“Well,” the witch said with a little laugh, “I am a witch, after all. You don’t think I would let just anyone come and find me, do you? This home is under a spell of protection, cast by the forest herself.”

“But...but, I found you!” The carpenter’s son stammered.

“Oh, anyone could find me easily enough. That is, if they are pure of heart.”

The carpenter’s son couldn’t help the blush that rose to his cheeks.

“They turned on me so quickly,” he said, “They were so ready to kill me.”

“People fear what they don’t understand,” the witch said sadly, taking the other man’s hand in his and squeezing. “And they don’t understand people like you and me. I am sorry.”

“‘People like you and me’?” the carpenter’s son asked.

“You want to become a witch, right? I would be happy to show you a few things, if you’d like.”

The carpenter’s son thought it over for a moment, then smirked.

“And what do you want from me, in exchange for this information?”

The witch smiled back at him and, still holding his hand, swung open the door to the cottage.

“Well,” the witch said, leading him inside, “How about you tell me your name, and I will tell you mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> howdy and happy jearmin week!
> 
> it's been a really long time since i've written anything, and even longer since i've participated in an event week. unfortunately i was really only able to get out this short piece :( as it is it's clear i'm a little out of practice...i'll just have to write more fanfic ;-)
> 
> very lightly edited. leave a kudos or (even better) a comment if you enjoyed or just want to tell me something! thanks for reading <3 good luck to everyone else participating this year!!!


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